


Black Magic

by SierraLaufeyson13



Category: Black Death (2010), Sean Bean - Fandom, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, Porn with a little bit of Plot, just a reason to write Sean Bean smut really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9496322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraLaufeyson13/pseuds/SierraLaufeyson13
Summary: While on the road to find a village that does not suffer from the Plague, Ulrich meets a witch in the woods who foretells of him of his doom and leads him astray from the righteous path.





	

The night was dark. Trees whispered to one another in the wind, a full moon's light was shrouded by thin, blackish clouds. The flicker of flames from the camp's fire could hardly be seen any longer for the thick underbrush and low lying branches. Something pale and flittering caught the man's eye and with sword drawn he ventured further into the bowels of the wood.

It passed before him again, fleeting and terrible. Around the hilt of the sword, his knuckles were white. There was only him, standing alone in the dark. His heavy breaths condensed in the cold air as soon as they left cracked and parted lips. A branch snapped underfoot and out of impulse, he swung the blade, cutting through nothing before he could realize it was his own heavy footfalls that had made the sound.

Feminine laughter surrounded him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see a pale figure, disappearing and reappearing with shining silver hair. Unease seized him and would not let go. "Show yourself, witch!" He shouted. The accursed forest swallowed his voice, though. She appeared before him without a sound and no sign of shock at the steel that bit into her neck. Delicate and smooth hands gripped onto the two-sided blade, but there was no blood, no indication of pain. "Who are you?" He breathed.

"A god-fearing person like yourself," her voice was nothing less than self-effacing. The witch released his sword and stepped back, holding her hands up to reveal palms that had gone unscathed. "Only we do not share the same God." She circled around him, noticing his careless lack of proper armor and how his scabbard belt was sloppily tied off. He followed her gaze and could not help but be drawn to the diaphanous shift that laid beneath a rugged cloak. "Did you expect me to be something else?" He could not meet her icy stare for fear that he would be cursed.

"This village, how?" It had been the reason that he had been sent away, to discover how they had endured without sickness, and to see for himself if there was indeed a necromancer.

She stood calm and unmoving, knowing what he meant by the partial question, "I have done nothing for or to these people. What keeps them from the plague is isolation, yet they no longer have that on their side. You and your men are the harbingers of death." She swayed in the wind and looked over her unexpected guest. In the poor light it was hard to tell if his hair was brown or blond, a mixture of both maybe, the scruff on his face undoubtedly matching. Age had begun to take its toll on his face, but it was not enough to make him horrid to look upon.

"They are heathens," he gritted out.

Indifference surrounded her, she had little care for those villages, especially the woman who had grasped control, pretending to be a witch when in truth she was only a mediocre herbalist. "Perhaps. Their remedies can keep infections at bay and heal cuts in good time, but they do not know the workings of the supernatural or divine, nor are they agents of those powers."

"But you are," he concluded.

She spun about and the gossamer material of the ragged gown followed her movements, "Yes, but I cannot control death or disease. I am only a humble servant."

He raised his sword and pressed the point into the skin above where her heart lay, if she had one. "Will you kill me?" She asked, the impish nature of her voice was absurd. She stepped toward him and drove the point of the blade further into her skin. "Burn me at the stake? Tie stones around my feet and cast me into the water?" A single drop of blackish blood welled up and streaked down her breast.

"Why did you lure me out here?" The man spat brusquely. There was no gentleness in his voice, only brute force, and anger.

The witch laughed and knocked away his sword, "I did not lure you out here. It was your own will and desire that led you to search for me."

"Playing games is something I would not recommend," one of the veins in his temple was throbbing. The whole situation was amusing to her, though, men were weak, easily ensnared, and driven by their own desires even if pledged to another. To her this was a game, everything in life was a game, it was the only way to make long years worthwhile. She vanished, only to materialize silently behind him, her fingertips dancing over the rough material of his tunic, "What better way is there to spend eternity, though?"

"Quiet, witch, or we shall find out if you can still speak without a tongue," he responded, cursing himself for ever leaving the camp. "Who are you?" He inquired again, but it was to no avail.

She shrugged and backed away until there was rough bark pressing against her calves, "That could be a very long answer." She was one with the night, with the earth, with the stars, with the forests. Not a creature or witch to be cursed, but a protector. He would not see it in that light, though.

"Who are you?" the witch asked, a response was on the tip of his tongue but she held up her hand with a bemused expression. "Wait, don't tell me," she pressed her hands against his unkempt cheeks and he was frozen in place at the warmth of her touch, though he did not dare look into her eyes. "You claim to be a holy warrior, a knight perhaps, killing in the name of your God," her smile was a strange type of incongruous beauty, "And now you're searching for a witch that can protect people from the sickness that spreads, or return with her head. Which is it Ulric?"

He seized the mass of tangled silver hair and jerked her head backward, revealing the milky flesh of her neck. His sword of pressing against the delicate skin. "Do it," the witch laughed and continued to do so when she felt the cold metal being drawn across her neck, but it did nothing, it could not even draw blood. "What will you do now?" Her chest heaved while asking the sardonic question. Ulric tightened his grip in her hair and pushed her hands away from his chest. "Perhaps we should see if burning works, yet I sense there is something else you desire to do with me at the moment."

Her silver tongue knew no bounds, so he silenced her. Desire indeed. His lips were rougher than the bark that dug into her back. She denied him nothing and he took until her teeth found his lip and bit down, hard enough that the both of them could taste blood. "I will have your name, woman," he breathed. His hands were heavy and calloused as they slipped from her hair and down the unmarred column of her neck.

"Nyx," it was a gasp that almost went unheard for the sound of fabric tearing. His hands were on her breasts then, kneading and pinching. He had no claims to being gentle, but neither had she, their movements frantic, fueled not by affection, but by darker things, all melting together into hard need that sought relief and an outlet.

Even the most powerful beings could be brought to their knees at the urging of primal desires and pleasure. She was no different. She was a woman before she was a witch. There was no wall she would not scale, no fortress she would not destroy, and no moral consideration; there was no god worth worrying about when she was joined with a lover. There was only power, control, and pleasure.

Tattered clothing tangled around her bare feet. Ulric's mouth descended upon her neck, a momentary distraction from his greedy hands. Nyx pressed her hands against his chest, beneath her palm his heart was racing. They parted for a moment, only for him to do away with his tunic. The witch laid her hands on his neck and pulled him back to her. His arms were strong, his shoulders broad. "You'll burn in hell for this," he breathed, breaking away from her poisonous kiss.

"As will you," she laughed as her nails broke through his skin, drawing blood. The silver chain he wore was cold as ice between their bodies. She took his face into her hands and the world slowed to a hushed stop. Her lips were soft and sweet, her skin supple as sin. "Take me and be damned," her voice was heavy and hot at his ear. Ulric cast aside all consequences and hoisted the witch up, pressing her back into the trunk of a large alder tree.

He pressed his face into her chest, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart and the voice in the back of his head that condemned him. That voice was easily ignored when Nyx threaded her fingers into his hair and wrapped her lithe legs around his waist. She gave a cry and arched into him when he bit down on her breast. Ulric pulled her away from the tree and laid her on the forest floor. It was unsettling to see how well she blended in with the woods.

She writhed so beguilingly under his hands, each swipe of his roving fingers evoking a response in her –a sigh, a shiver, a reflexive tightening of the muscles beneath her skin. Nyx held to him, unwilling to be left without having been sated. He hissed in pleasure as he sheathed himself within her, filling her in one smooth stroke. He stilled and held himself there, reveling in the sensation of his aching flesh cocooned by her wet heat that both scorched and soothed

He let his hands glide up her arms, past her elbows, and toward her wrists. She splayed out her hands and looked to the side to see his fingers laced in hers, pressing them back into the soft soil. For what must have been the first time, Ulric looked into her eyes. A cloudy haze hung over lilac irises, had he not known better she could have passed as a blind woman. Though it was those haunting eyes and silver hair that gave her an otherworldly appearance, no one in their right mind would deny that this was a woman of power.

Something changed in his eyes but she could not decipher it, instead, she drew his face down and kissed him again. She relaxed inch by inch, sliding her hands over his muscled back, the ridges of his shoulder blades, and down his arms, taking the time to fully appreciate the small nicks and scars she found. Then he moved and it was equal parts pain and pleasure. Nyx could feel the way he drew in and out of her, and with every thrust, she could feel how he was taking his claim.

She moaned harshly as she came, her fingers releasing their pressure on his body, and he shifted above her, finding a new angle, moving to meet her, until he groaned one last time and she could feel him pulse and quiver inside her. Ulric's arms were stiff as they held his weight above the witch. Yet she reached up and pushed the damp hair from his face. His head hangs forward, chin touching his chest. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow, she watched it as it trailed down between her breasts and down her stomach.

He may have hated her and she him, and despite the sacrilegious act that had been committed those few precious moments after release were sacred. Nyx eased him down to lie atop her, her fingers loosely running through damp hair in which she could only just begin to see the few strands of silver that permeated the light brown.

The morning would be upon them soon. Ulric stood and gathered his clothes from the forest floor and placed his sword back within its scabbard. Nyx rose with grace and he drank in her naked form again. If he should rot in hell because of her then he would remember her, all of her, for eternity. The witch reached out, her hand caressing his bearded and scarred cheek. "Do not take my warning lightly when I say that you and your men will die should you enter that village." He reached out for her one last time but she was gone and there was only the sound of morning birds singing merrily with the sun beginning to rise.


End file.
